Slipping
by Shilky
Summary: No one has seen him for three weeks. Someone is about to.
1. Author's Note

A/N: Well, here goes nothing. I'm very new to fanfiction, but I thought I'd try my hand at it anyhow. With that said, any and all comments, criticisms, or critiques are most welcome.  
  
This story is rated R for violence, both implied and explicit later on, as well as for some eventual slashiness that I'm expecting to occur. If slash isn't your cuppa, this probably isn't the story for you, although the slash won't be evident for at least the first ten or so chapters.  
  
Please enjoy, or not. Just read.  
  
--Shilky 


	2. Chapter One

Slipping  
  
His eyes were hard as porphyry With looking on cruel lands His voice came slipping over me Like terrible silver hands  
  
- Dorothy Parker, "A Well-Worn Tale"  
  
The Present  
  
The young man was walking slowly down the hall, lingering at times while his grey eyes clouded over in thought. Once the cloudburst ceased, he would resume his drugged pace. His shoes made hushed clicks upon the stone floor as he went along, the sound a comfort to him among the draped silence in the corridor. He occasionally passed a portrait or still life hanging dead on the wall. The pictures were completely still, as if someone had put a petrificus upon them all. Not even their eyes moved to follow his progress. This worried him immensely.  
  
He had tried, in the beginning, to speak with a couple of the inhabitants. They all stared blankly ahead, oil faces stock-still. Not one of them made a sound. Even Sir Cadogan, who had been moved from his place in the North Tower after upsetting a milkmaid and a hunting party a few paintings down, was sitting like a tiny Buddhist statue underneath his tree. He supposed this was what Muggle art looked like and he shivered, not liking it one bit.  
  
The heavy wool cloak he wore over his robes was beginning to fray in several places, and smell besides from the dank water he had fallen into several days prior. He had not seen a house-elf in days and had no concept of the word "mildew." He was tired of wearing a torn and offensively- odored cloak, but as the heat had mysteriously disappeared along with so many other things he had always taken for granted inside the castle, he had decided that warm and malodorous was preferable to cold and unscented. The air around him held too much of those qualities as it were.  
  
He looked up from tracing the progress of his boots upon the ground to notice that he was coming to a fork in the corridor. This was not his wing of the castle; Ravenclaws lived here. He was not familiar with its twists and turns, and came to a stop as he quietly pulled a slender piece of wood from his belt. The smooth, cool wand felt reassuring in his clammy palm. Pushing his pale hair out of his eyes, he began to move forward once again.  
  
Once again, he came to a terse halt. His chest tensed and he felt that familiar frigid current of energy pour from his heart into his extremities. His arms ached with the strain of it against his veins. His breathing ebbed to a barely audible intake and exhalation of air through his nose; the inside of his mouth was like parchment. In his ears was the horrible sound of jagged movement along the corridor leading off to his right.  
  
The noise was so slight that he had to endeavor to hear it. He was surprised he had heard it at all to begin with, but thankful that he had; he now knew to ready himself. It was confusing to him, though: clop- scrape, clop-scrape, clop-scrape. Slowly, slowly, like winter fighting its way past the warmth of a lingering fall, the clop-scrape was making its way towards the junction. Ragged breathing accompanied the being, and the boy thought for a brief moment that it could be another person. Another student perhaps, or even a professor!  
  
He shook his head lightly and looked downward; Stupid, he thought. Everyone who was still left in the castle was accounted for, and most of them were currently gathered raggedly in the Great Hall, some still in shock, others gone half-crazy from being cooped up for so long. It had been weeks since anyone else had been seen. Dumbledore, that old bat, had disappeared long ago, before any of the events had taken place. Professors Sinistra and Trelawney had fled at the first sign of trouble, as had most of the others, including their recently acquired Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, who turned out to be almost as useful as that prat Gilderoy Lockhart. McGonagall had been killed in a blast of brilliant green light before the Gryffindors' disbelieving eyes. Professors Flitwick and Sprout had been fighting off Death Eaters the best they knew how, Flitwick aiming useless charms at them and Sprout dodging curses while shouting frantically at the students to get away. The two professors had lasted about seven minutes before they, too, were cut down.  
  
Hagrid, the oaf of a groundskeeper, knew no useful spells or countercurses, and had survived only due to the genetic defense mechanism that lay latent in his thick, half-giant skin. Some students had now witnessed this phenomenon twice, being present both during the attack and at Umbridge's foolish attempt to capture Hagrid from his hut last year. The groundskeeper presently spent most of his time watching over the remaining students as best he knew how. They often caught him weeping in a corner, head buried in his hands, large body shaking like a boulder during an earthquake.  
  
Filch had been felled while trying to rescue Mrs. Norris, which Draco saw as very fitting. The man wouldn't have wanted to live without that disturbing little feline anyway. Madams Pomfrey and Pince were still out of commission after being hit by curses that not even the Slytherin seventh- years had heard of. No one even knew why the Death Eaters would have bothered to curse a librarian anyway. She would have been as much use to the students as Hagrid was. Snape, the boy's head of house, had not been seen or heard from in three weeks, nor had the Boy Who Lived.  
  
Hogwarts' student body had been reduced to a quivering mass of frightened children, about half of whom had been picked off by refracted or poorly aimed curses during the initial siege. The Death Eaters had then retreated as quickly as they had stormed the castle, hastily scurrying away like cockroaches scuttling from the light. Afterwards, the castle had become as quiet as a tomb. One could go deaf straining to hear some sign of life from the vacant hallways and classrooms. The remaining students had grouped together in the Great Hall; they clung to one other as if they would drown.  
  
Some of the students had disappeared mysteriously later on, after embarking on intrepid quests to figure some way out of the castle. The few who returned from these missions reported that they could see nothing at all through any of the windows of the castle, and that when any doors to the outside were opened, a vast nothingness stretched out in front of them. One Muggle-born student had kept repeating in a droning voice the phrase, "And darkness was upon the face of the earth" ad nauseum since he had returned. The void almost drove them mad at the sight of it: no time, no sound, no sight, no existence seemed capable from beyond the doors. Those foolish few who had attempted to venture into it instantly disappeared.  
  
Harry Potter had disappeared on one such mission. He and his best friend, Ron, had set out into the castle a week after the Death Eaters had vanished. Ron later claimed that he and Harry had only split up for a brief second before he realized that Harry was gone. Ron and their other best friend, Hermione, had combed the castle for days but never found any trace of him. They both were adamant that Harry would never try anything as stupid as going through one of the outer doors. Some of the other students thought otherwise.  
  
One of those other students was this one, who was presently trying to stop his heart from seizing up in his breast. His rational mind was telling him that there was no reason why there should be a sound of any kind coming from the hall beyond him. He must be imagining things. Everyone else was currently gathered in the Great Hall, having lost most of their strength of mind and body by now. The only reason he was out here at all was that he was stubborn, accustomed to getting what he wanted, and what he wanted more than anything at this point was a way out.  
  
The sound was still there. Cautiously, oh so cautiously, he inched his way closer and closer to the sharp corner of the stone wall. His wand was held level with his abdomen, his arm reared back and held taut as if ready to strike. His other arm was cocked in front of his body in a mostly useless but instinctively protective fashion. The clop-scrape continued unabated, louder and closer with each passing moment. He looked down at his wand in his trembling hand and was suddenly ashamed of himself. The cold rush of fear winding its way through his body disappeared. He looked up again, with clear eyes and a clearer mind. This is no way for a Malfoy to act, he thought with annoyance and a welling spring of determination. He breathed deep the cold, tasteless air, jutted his chin, and charged the corner. 


	3. Chapter Two

A Month Ago  
  
When Harry had first heard about the void beyond the castle walls, he was intrigued. He didn't really know why. At the time, he supposed it was because anything that took his mind off the fact that they were effectively trapped in the school was as good a thing to ponder as any. Nevermind that the void was the most apparent reason they were trapped. It seemed to hold some kind of possibility in its nothingness that called out to Harry. They said it was dark and quiet in there. They said that there seemed to be no consciousness or feelings of any kind in there. To Harry, that meant no grief, no anger, no doubt, no crazed, clawing desperation that leaked from him like viscous sweat these days.  
  
Even before the siege Harry had been secretly gnawing away at his own mind, trying to displace the feelings that had no business there. Every passing day he was acutely aware of the feelings gaining purchase and every passing day he shut down even more. If he kept out any external stimuli, he reasoned, there would be nothing for the doubts and fears to feed on except for a few ragged memories. Even those would be eaten away soon enough, if only he could endure the pain for now.  
  
He spent most of his days contemplating Sirius' short life. The man had owned only, what, twenty years of happiness? He was barely a man when his whole world had been smashed to bits. And just now, as he had been on the brink of returning to some semblance of a normal life, it had all been taken away from him again. If only he had fallen to the left or to the right; if only he hadn't taunted Bellatrix; if only Harry hadn't impulsively tried to rescue something that wasn't even in danger. Sirius might have been a hero after that night. Everyone would have vouched for him; he could have had his life back. Instead, he was soundlessly drifting somewhere behind that deceptively innocent-looking veil, lost to the world forever. If only.  
  
He also spent time thinking of his parents, and occasionally of the startled look on Cedric's face as he had taken his last, sharp breath. He thought about Peter Pettigrew and about Snape and about Kreacher. He thought about selfishness and cruelty and the basest elements of human nature. He thought about these things and about how they were slowly demolishing his world.  
  
His friends noticed a striking change in his behavior when he returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year. No longer was he the angry, impetuous teenager who lashed out at the slightest provocation. Nor was he the wide- eyed innocent with puppy breath who blushed and demurred at any mention of his unsolicited fame. This Harry was a different creature altogether. He was silent almost all of the time, with a hard, bitter look behind the glasses and a voice devoid of tone whenever it was forced from his throat. On those rare occasions that he had spoken voluntarily, it was to only make a snide comment and watch with sick amusement as his friends tried to ignore or explain away his behavior.  
  
Ron and Hermione had stayed up on many late nights discussing his welfare; they were worried about him, this he knew, but there was nothing they could do. Dumbledore had tried to speak with him twice, but Harry had sat in his gilded office, glowering at Fawkes and refusing to make eye contact with his headmaster. There was nothing he wanted any of them to do, and that was the worst part. He wanted to fester and rot away, to dry up and crumble to ash, to leave all of it behind him.  
  
When the castle had been taken, it had been a nice diversion. People had left him alone, especially that grinning, twinkling idiot Dumbledore, whose disappearance Harry noted with a satisfaction that bordered on outright glee. Glee, Harry had to remind himself, was not an emotion that he wanted to feel anymore. He pushed it down to the pit of his stomach, where it remained fat and smug.  
  
A week after the Death Eaters withdrew from the school, Harry was feeling better than he'd felt in a long time. Everyone around him was miserable and frightened. They were scared and dirty. There were no more houses or degrees of purity. Everyone was on equal footing, except for Harry, who still reigned as their prince and supreme deity. He was now their glorious Prince of Despair; the Boy Who Suffered. 


	4. Chapter Three

Three Weeks Ago  
  
That morning, Ron had awoken as rested as one could possibly be after sleeping on a cold, stone floor amidst the groans and whimpers and manic whispering that took place nearly round the clock. There was no light coming through any of the huge windows in the Hall, and there hadn't been for almost a week now. The torches in the castle had been kept lit through a simple Lumos spell that Hagrid knew. However, no amount of effort had been able to light any of the hearths in the chilly dampness of the school. The students huddled together to keep warm, and a few courageous souls had made raids on the dormitories to gather blankets and extra clothing. The students were still terribly frightened of the uncertainties that lay outside of the Hall. The fact that several people had disappeared did little to ease their concerns.  
  
Food was provided in rather limited amounts by Hagrid, who appeared at random intervals throughout the day clutching whatever he had been able to scavenge from the abandoned kitchens. The house elves had apparently hidden away most of the provisions, and each trip to the kitchens was like a highly-complicated treasure hunt. However, the students were fed and safe for now, if a little bit ripe.  
  
Ron had been antsy during the last few days. He wanted to get out into the castle beyond the Great Hall and poke around, perhaps try to find a way out. Others had been unsuccessful, but they weren't Weasleys. His intuitive sense of self-preservation and a knack for deftly avoiding mortal peril were inherent in the Weasley blood. He thought fondly of Fred and George and their exploits at school. Lately, he missed them terribly and often mused that they would have found a way out of this mess by now. Fred and George were nothing if not resourceful.  
  
Ron hadn't heard anything about his family since the attack; none of the students had heard anything about theirs either, though. No one had heard a single bit of news about anything from the outside world inside this bloody castle. The owls had all disappeared, the fireplaces had apparently been disconnected from the Floo network, and the Hogwarts anti-apparition wards still seemed to be firmly in place. They had been completely cut off.  
  
This overwhelming sense of detachment had combined with a strange sensation claustrophobia over the last few days, which set Ron's heart and mind to constant, unceasing thoughts of escape. Hermione had done her best to sway him from this task, reminding him that people on the outside surely knew that they were in here, and that they were bound to free them much sooner than later. Ron thought that she was a sheep, just like the others, bleating to each other to stay put and wait. It disappointed him that her quite amazing intellect was sometimes stunted by her lack of common sense and intuition. And to think that he and Harry had finally been wearing off on her until now.  
  
"Just think of your parents, and your brothers, for that matter!" she rationalized. "The entire Order must be working on a way to get us out right this minute, right as we speak!"  
  
"And what if they're not, Hermione?" he asserted impatiently. It seemed like they had engaged in this very same conversation at least forty times since the siege. "What if they're all dead? Just like McGonagall? We haven't even seen Dumbledore himself since before the attack! What if he joined forces with You-Know-Who? What if everyone and everything we know is gone and we're stuck here forever?" At this point, Ron's voice took on a now familiar half-mad, high-pitched tenor while the tips of his ears began to glow a faint red as he worked himself into frenzy yet again.  
  
Hermione always looked scandalized at the idea that Dumbledore could have turned traitor and Ron always had to admit that it did sound a little far- fetched, even for him. However, he could not put aside his leaden fears that the same painful fate that had taken his classmates and Professor McGonagall from them could have taken his own family as well.  
  
All of them were on the battlefront; every single one of them was now deeply involved in the Order. Percy had come back to the Burrow one Sunday afternoon, eyes redder than his hair and his head bowed. He had not even uttered a breath before Mum and Dad had descended upon him in a flurry of hugs and excited whimpers and exclamations of love and joy. This display of unquestioning forgiveness seemed to have been the last crack before the dam burst in Percy's heart. From that point on, he was no longer the uppity, hopelessly humorless stick-in-the-mud Percy that they all knew. He became softened, somehow humbled. He was much quieter now when he spoke, but he laughed more and grumbled much less. He always had a faint smile playing at his lips when he watched his family bustling about the Burrow or at Grimmauld Place, as opposed to the sour expression with which he had noted their presence in the past. He had become a part of the family again, and none of them had ever been happier.  
  
Even the fact that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been growing in strength over the past year and a half had not seemed to slow anyone in the Order down. People were determined and purposeful, and people are usually happier when they have a sense of purpose, Ron reckoned. All of their work had seemingly been keeping the Dark Lord at bay through a combination of arduous recruiting throughout Europe, protracted laboring over the development of newer countercurses and protection spells, and the deftly cunning work of their few agents within the Death Eaters' ranks.  
  
Ron didn't trust some of the agents any further than he could throw them, Severus Snape included, but they always seemed to provide highly accurate information and were considered invaluable. Ron often wondered just how much of the Order's highly accurate information these agents were providing the Dark Lord in turn. It seemed that his suspicions about Snape had been confirmed when the Potions master disappeared at the onset of the siege, and Ron spent many an hour silently berating his friends and family for ever trusting such an obviously duplicitous man.  
  
Still, he thought, there was a time to lament their situation and there was a time to take action. As the Muggle bard had once exclaimed, the moment was swiftly approaching at which Ron was prepared to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them. Luckily, it seemed that Harry had also begun to feel this way, as well.  
  
Ron had taken some satisfaction of late in noticing that Harry seemed to have regained most of his sense of adventure in the past week despite the harsh and fearsome circumstances that currently surrounded them. In fact, Harry had at time appeared downright jolly, but Ron didn't like the malicious glint that had settled behind the bright green eyes during these periods of cheer. Being Ron, however, and a male to boot, he largely ignored these small moments and focused his thoughts and energies on finding a way out of the castle once and for all. 


	5. Chapter Four

Three Weeks Ago  
  
When Ron had suggested that the two of them should make an expedition into the corridors of the school, and not just for blankets and other rations this time, Harry almost beamed. He shook slightly with hastily concealed joy as Ron spoke of stealthily sneaking away from Hermione and Hagrid's watchful eyes and intrepidly venturing outside of the Great Hall. Harry could see beyond the fire and determination in Ron's eyes as he spoke, to a deeper place where Ron was secretly pleased with himself at being able to make Harry smile, if ever so vaguely. The look that Harry saw there was almost desperate, pleading, as if Harry's happiness was of grave importance to Ron. Harry snorted at the notion. He was tired of other people worrying about him. Ron needed to get a life and stop constantly tagging along on the famous Harry Potter's coattails, he thought bitterly.  
  
Every day was like this for him: a roller-coaster of emotional highs and lows. One moment of feeling guiltily happy, smirking to himself, and then grimacing and sneering at the ridiculous idea that he could ever really be happy again. He was exhausted.  
  
Harry did not need much convincing to sneak out of the Great Hall the next evening, at their agreed upon departure time. One swift jab from Ron and Harry was wide awake. He had been sleeping very soundly ever since he had made up his mind to undertake the brief journey out into the castle. He was looking forward to confronting the night that lay beyond the heavy castle doors.  
  
He glanced at the digital watch on his bony wrist. Ron had been vastly entertained by the tiny instrument when Harry had first purchased it several years ago in a tiny Muggle artifacts store tucked away in Diagon Alley. Harry had always wanted a watch, but the Dursleys had never allowed him one. It was one of the few luxuries he had allowed himself. The time on his small electronic luxury currently read 2:46 am.  
  
Harry rose as smoothly and quietly as his strain-tensed muscles would allow. He pulled on his trainers over the two pairs of socks he was wearing to keep warm, and silently began to steal away from the other students, closely following Ron's lead. Most of the other huddled bodies in the Hall were asleep, but Harry was sure that a few were still up. Awake or not, nobody tried to stop Harry or Ron from sneaking out, and Harry was glad for it. Hermione was still asleep in the darkness behind them, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. She had so much faith in the three of them; she never would have expected Ron and Harry to go off without her, and so she hadn't been waiting up to stop them as poor Neville Longbottom had tried to do their first year.  
  
Harry didn't feel guilty at all for leaving her behind. As much as he often felt the need to rain unwarranted vitriol upon his friends and fellow students, he certainly didn't actively wish them harm, especially not Hermione. It was safer in the Hall, and it would turn out for the better in the end if Hermione were to stay behind and out of harm's way. He needed Ron, however. He needed a witness to run back to the Hall later on and frantically report that Harry was missing, to tell his story, and to mourn his disappearance. It would hurt Ron, yes, but Harry was more than prepared to make that sacrifice.  
  
~*~  
  
Harry's footsteps followed closely behind his own, and Ron felt a small thrill travel up his body. It shot up from the pit of his stomach and out into a million tiny threads into his chest and head and arms. He took a cautious breath to clear his mind of the tingle that blurred his vision and sped up his heart. He was more than thrilled to have Harry following behind him now. Harry was finally eager to do something, to join in, for the first time in months. It felt like old times; Ron flashed happily through the memories of their many adventures in his mind. Sure, each exploit had been almost equally dangerous as their current one, but they'd come through relatively unscathed each time. Ron held onto the buoyant hope that this time would be no different.  
  
The two boys made their way out of the Hall and into what Seamus Finnegan had begun referring to as the DMZ. The reference was rather lost on Ron, but it sounded fierce and intimidating, adjectives which were entirely appropriate now. The air in the corridor was cold, but their breath remained invisible. Ron and Harry looked at one another for instructions, and finding that neither was well-suited for the task of leading the cavalry, Ron spoke quietly.  
  
"Which way should we go?"  
  
"I have no bloody idea. I don't even know where to begin." Harry sounded annoyed that Ron didn't already have a plan formed. This little trip had been Ron's scheme, after all, and not Harry's. That in and of itself was strange to Ron, the idea that he should be the leader for once.  
  
"Well, I was thinking that we could try one of our tunnels. You know, from the map."  
  
"Yes, I suppose that we could, although the map hasn't worked since the siege. It's blank all the time now..." Harry trailed off.  
  
"I know, but we still know where the tunnels are. We don't really need the map to tell us that," Ron continued.  
  
"Fine," Harry answered sullenly. "As long as we go. Somewhere. I don't care. Let's move." His words were clipped and short.  
  
Ron cocked his head slightly at the sudden stringency of the words. "All right," he began slowly. "Let's try the tunnel by the old hag with the hump, I guess."  
  
"Fine," Harry repeated.  
  
They started purposefully towards the third floor wing, wands within easy reach. The pat of shoes upon the stones and their soft, steady breathing were the only sounds echoing in the dim halls. Harry had fallen behind him again, so Ron slowed his pace and took up a position at Harry's left side.  
  
Ron turned his head slightly to look in Harry's direction and perhaps try to catch his eye. Ron caught his bright emerald eyes for one brief second and lifted one corner of his mouth in a supplicating, little half-smile. Harry only glowered at him in response and proceeded to purposely fall behind yet again. 


	6. Chapter Five

They had only been walking for a short time when Harry stopped. He held up his hand in a gesture indicating that Ron should stop as well. He craned his head and narrowed his eyes in mock concentration.  
  
"Do you hear that?" he asked faintly.  
  
"Hear what?" Ron was clearly straining to identify the phantom sound.  
  
"Something," Harry suggested vaguely, "is moving down there," and he motioned towards the corridor that led to the Potions wing.  
  
"I don't know, Harry. I don't hear anything." Ron frowned slightly and scratched absentmindedly at his leg with his wand. "We should keep moving. You don't want to go down there anyway. Who knows what Snape left behind down there before he up and ran off with the rest of his cronies."  
  
"Hmm." Harry made a noncommittal sound. "I think I'm just going to see real quick if there's anything down there," he uttered slowly, with an almost dreamy quality to his voice. Harry realized that he was staring longingly down the murky hall, which had been blackened by the lack of lit torches along its walls. He thought distractedly that Hagrid must have not even bothered with this hall, as nobody would want to go down it anyway. The memory of Snape was almost palpable here. One could very nearly taste the acrid stench of the dungeons on their tongue and feel it burning their nostrils. There were no passages down this corridor that Harry knew of to lead them to the outside world. As far as he knew, they only led deeper within the cold stones of the castle. Yet, he also knew that he had to go down there. He had to go now.  
  
He broke away from his position at Ron's back and started to move swiftly down the corridor, a muttered "Lumos" providing a small sphere of light at the tip of his wand.  
  
"Harry! Wait! Where do you think you're going?" Ron hissed after him.  
  
"Stay here, Ron. I'll be right back," he replied curtly.  
  
"No way you're going down that corridor by yourself, mate." Ron started down the hall.  
  
Harry turned on his best friend, snarling slightly. "If you had any brains in your head at all, you'd stay here like a good boy, like I just told you to." Ron stopped. His mouth formed a tiny "O." His arms sagged to his sides. Harry grinned inside.  
  
"Stay here until I come back. If something happens to me down there, I need you to be able to get back to the Great Hall and warn the others. Understand? Are we getting through that thick, carroty skull of yours yet? Or shall I use small words and hand signals to make myself more abundantly clear?" Harry became aware that his tone of voice had come to resemble that of Snape's quite remarkably. His mouth had gone dry and he felt a funny tickle of excitement inside. Never before had he seen Ron at a loss for words like this. Ron's brown eyes pierced into him with sorrow and hurt. It was truly wonderful.  
  
"Fine." Ron conceded acidly. "Go ahead and get yourself killed down there. I'd just love to be the one to come back and announce that the great Harry Potter has finally bought it. Hell, we've all been waiting for this to happen for years now. I mean, it was bound to happen sooner or later, right? Always playing the hero, always rushing around like you're utterly invincible, forgetting about everyone else in the process except for whoever it is you're dead-set on saving at the moment. I don't know who you think it is this time, but they're obviously more important than me, or Hermione, or anyone else. Just go. I don't really give a shit anymore." His voice was full of confusion and bitterness. Harry lapped at the words.  
  
"Thanks for the permission slip," Harry retorted in a sing-song voice. In the back of his mind, he realized idly that he sounded cracked. He didn't care.  
  
He turned from his best friend and walked away. As he descended further down the dark corridor, Harry began to skip.  
  
~*~  
  
Ron stared after the small form of his best friend, who was fading quickly into the chiaroscuro of the hall. Ron's whole body was shaking. He was almost delirious with rage. Just when he'd thought things were going well, just when it seemed that Harry was returning to some semblance of himself, he had turned down that dark pathway again that Ron didn't understand.  
  
It was as if he didn't even know Harry anymore. This Harry was unpredictable, manic, and desperately angry. Ron wanted to shake him as hard as Ron's body was shaking right now. He wanted to slam his head brutally into the wall and grip his delicate shoulders until they were mottled with bruises. He wanted to beat the sense and the life back into Harry's empty mind. Instead, he leaned up against the stones of the hall and slumped down into a tangled ball of too-long limbs and patched clothes and messy red hair. He pulled his knees to his chest and held them there until he stopped shaking. He then began to cry. 


	7. Chapter Six

Draco was propped up on one elbow, lazily watching the boy wonders creep out of the Great Hall. He didn't feel a desire to stop them, or a particular urge to alert anyone else to their departure. He simply chuckled as he watched them exit in what they must have imagined was infinite stealth.  
  
It wasn't as if there were any professors to keep them there in the Great Hall or to enforce any prohibition about venturing into the rest of the castle. The students had simply formed a symbiotic relationship with the relative security provided by the Hall, and now were reluctant to leave the only area they felt was safe. Most of them were still clinging to the childish hope that someone would come along and rescue them any day now. All they had to do was sit tight and wait.  
  
Draco knew better. After all, he was raised by a premier Death Eater and sadist extraordinaire, The Dark Lord's right-hand man, Lucius Malfoy. Draco reflected on that name obsessively, always had. He turned it over in his head, relived all the moments anyone had ever said his surname. It was always with either a distasteful sneer or with patronizingly opaque, pandering earnestness. Neither was preferable, although he found the latter to be more useful as it always came from spineless halfwits who were always more than willing to do his dirty work.  
  
Take, for example, Crabbe and Goyle. The great idiots were presently snoring and slobbering upon themselves as they slept, useless for anything but auditory distraction from the maddening quiet of the castle. Draco glared at their hulking figures and turned away, propping himself up on the other elbow now.  
  
Draco was not oblivious to the fact that the other students thought that he and the rest of the Slytherins had been left behind by the Death Eaters to monitor any actions and report back to their parents. This was not the case, he replied snidely to anyone that needled him about it. The awful truth was that neither Draco or any of his housemates had any advance knowledge of the attack, and were equally as frightened as the rest of the students. Not that they would ever admit as much, of course.  
  
Lucius had given Draco no warning whatsoever, not so much as a coded note by owl or a cryptic message sent through Snape. As far as Draco was concerned, Lucius and the other Death Eaters were more than content to sacrifice their children for their Lord if it meant eventual victory. Children were expendable, especially the young ones. Children could always be replaced. Draco knew this and was sick. 


	8. Chapter Seven

Harry allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as he hurried down the corridor. He knew that there would be a door down here, just as he knew that he would see a scar on his forehead if he looked in the mirror. It was as if the knowledge had been there all along, like it was a part of him. All he had to do to find it was to look. Seek and ye shall find.  
  
Darkness yawned and swallowed the hallway to the front and rear of him. Only a few more steps and he would be there. He panted, breaking into a run now. Cold sweat beaded on his pale forehead and on his upper lip. He licked it off as he ran, savoring the salt of it across his tongue.  
  
Ahead, there was an indentation in the wall on the right that he had never noticed in six years of morosely trudging towards his Potions classes or merrily retreating from them. Harry stopped just short and regarded it with astonishment. His eyes widened and he set his jaw to keep from letting his mouth flap open. Swallowing tightly, he peered around the corner and into the indentation itself.  
  
To his exquisite joy, there it was: Ten slightly worn steps leading down to a simple, wooden door with a rough iron handle. Without a thought in his head, Harry dashed down the steps and reached out for the handle. His hand had just touched the cool metal when he froze.  
  
"Harry? Harry? Look, mate, I'm sorry 'bout what I said. Where are you? Harry?" Ron's voice trailed plaintively down the hall. The sound of his footsteps followed soon afterwards. Harry panicked. He was so close now; Ron was not going to ruin this for him.  
  
Without any further hesitation, he grabbed the handle and tugged the door open. There it was. Harry took a deep breath and stepped forward into the velvety night that lay spread before him.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
He was gone. 


End file.
